


like a pair of stolen polished dimes (that woman she's got eyes that shine)

by marmvg



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: idk but here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 14:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmvg/pseuds/marmvg
Summary: "“Sorry for breaking your balls.”Face scrunched in agony, Sweeney wills his eyes to open, squinting at Laura dangerously.“Literally,” he tells her. “You literally broke my balls.”Laura hands him an ice pack, already bored of his whining. “You would think someone cocky enough to instigate a bar fight with Shadow would have a higher tolerance for pain.”"Prompt: I don't know if you're still taking prompts, but if so I would like to read some good old physical hurt/comfort for Sweeney & Laura!





	like a pair of stolen polished dimes (that woman she's got eyes that shine)

“Sorry for breaking your balls.”

Face scrunched in agony, Sweeney wills his eyes to open, squinting at Laura dangerously.

“Literally,” he tells her. “You literally broke my balls.”

Laura hands him an ice pack, already bored of his whining. “You would think someone cocky enough to instigate a bar fight with Shadow would have a higher tolerance for pain.”

“Shadow didn’t hold me in the air by my crotch for twenty minutes demanding answers,” Sweeney reminds her. “He just faceplanted into my fist.”

Distantly, Laura registers she should be concerned that Shadow, her husband, an inhumanly muscly giant amongst men, was beaten bloody by a boozing leprechaun, but she only feels disappointed. Shadow always fancied himself the strongest man in the room, and Laura was proud to be married to the strongest man in the room, but one punch from a twiggy ginger had him blacked out for hours. That’s a little embarrassing, for both of them.

"You only won that fight because you're a God."

Sweeney guffaws, then groans and pushes the ice pack closer to his groin. "'M no God," he tells her. "I Just possess superhuman abilities."

“Punching really hard and pulling money out of thin air?”

“Don’t forget the irresistible charm.”

"Crying about getting your magic quarter back is neither charming nor irresistible."

“First of all,” Sweeney alternates hands attending to his pelvic area to point a finger at her. “It’s not a quarter. It isn’t even silver.”

If Laura still could, she would yawn in his face. Instead, she pretends to, and her rigid joints lock her jaw in place, leaving her mouth hanging open. Without a bat of an eye, Sweeney takes her chin in hand and twists until they hear a small crack. Then he lifts it gently, closing her mouth for her.

She feels something, then. A fluttering in her chest. Not the beating of her heart when Shadow kissed her, but a physical sensation nonetheless.

Not a second later, she coughs up a moth.

“Second,” Sweeney continues speaking unperturbed, “the leprechaun charm is _real_. Ask John Holahan.”

“You overestimate how much I care.”

“You’ll be singin’ a different hymn the next time Wednesday tangles your hubby in a web that only my sweet talkin’ can unweave.”

Laura presses down on Sweeney's ice pack with one strong, unholy finger. He yelps in pain and swats, futile, at her unrelenting poke. Only when his face begins to turn red does Laura drop her finger with a smirk.

“Pretty sure I could just rip the web apart,” Laura reminds him.

“Thanks to my quarter,” he grumbles.

“So you admit it’s a quarter.”

Sweeney groans in a different sort of pain than the physical kind Laura inflicts on him regularly.

It makes her smile.

She supposes it’s twisted, but this is the only way she has ever been able to truly entertain herself; to be the itch someone can’t scratch, the smell they can’t detect, the most frustrating thing possible. It's delicious to watch the vein in someone's temple grow and throb and practically burst simply because she twisted a few words. The game is such a simple one to play – most of the time. Laura could have Robby spitting and spluttering in a second. Audrey too. Then there are people like Shadow, who acknowledge what you’re doing and love you with a stupid level head anyway; or the Gods, who give better than they get. Sweeney, though. He can play, and he can play in the same filthy, slimy way Laura does.

He’s not something she’s ever actually experienced. If she were a stupid, more cliché person, Laura would say Sweeney feels something like a kindred spirit; a soul mate, if you would. Maybe even someone she knew in another life. And since the whole turning into a zombie, gaining super strength, finding God thing happened, she’s a bit more inclined to think it’s possible. Still, she can’t help but be unrealistically realistic. There are a million assholes in the world, after all, and she was bound to find one who’s as big of a dick as she is in her lifetime.

Or her after-lifetime. Whatever.

The point is she likes him. She likes him because he doesn’t hold any punches; he calls her out on her shit and treats her like crap when she deserves it. He says stupid things that make her grin, and she can make him smile too. Sometimes, when he isn't busy shivering dramatically in the passenger seat of the truck and her shell cracks enough for her to talk, he doesn’t just listen to her – he engages her in long, deep, stupid conversations about anything and everything. He punches ice cream men for her. It’s cute.

And it works.

Because Laura is the best kind of awful, but Mad Sweeney is the worst kind of good.

There’s no one else she’d rather follow her husband cross country with. Not even her husband. But Laura decides not to think too hard about that.

Agitated by her train of thought and all their time wasted here, Laura grabs the ice pack, throwing it over her shoulder and shattering one of Eostre’s extravagant floral-patterned vases. “If you’re done being a pussy, I’d like to go beat the living shit out of Wednesday now, please.”

“I’m not done, actually,” snaps Sweeney. “Are you done manhandling me, Ronda Rousey?”

“Not as long as you’re the Rocky to my Apollo,” Laura sing-songs.

Light as their banter may be, she can’t help but think Sweeney sounds defeated when he says, “I’m not your anything, Dead wife,” and stands from Eostre’s plush chase with a wince. “But let’s go deck the god of war.”


End file.
